


bigger pusher over

by kittu9



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Mamori was not raised by wolves, mostly canon compliant, mutual respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittu9/pseuds/kittu9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t make sense, except he always does.</p><p>Hiruma and Mamori: interconnected character studies, pre-Deathmarch<br/>originally posted on LJ in 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bigger pusher over

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Cat Power’s “Back of Your Head.”
> 
> First posted in 2006, in a slightly different format and under the title “off the map.”

The same way he can laugh at her and belittle her and compliment her, all in one moment: that's how she understands his mercurial nature.

***

The way he’s tensing his shoulder, right—now, like that: she can nearly read the lines of intent carved into his stance, and she turns her eyes to a point further down the field, to where he will throw the ball. He is angry and focused and (she thinks) probably disgusted with himself; there’s no other explanation for the way his scapula is twisting just so into the angle of his pass.

(Mamori's throat aches a little, strangely, with sympathy and not from cheering. She bites it back and narrows her eyes, focusing on the flight of the ball.)

***

He doesn’t really respect her.

(Actually, Mamori is wrong: Hiruma respects her very much, and he is going to utilize every fucking ability she possesses in order to spur his team on to greater heights—and okay, he’s a little fascinated by her as well. That’s why he keeps walking away; he needs a little more time to figure her out.)

(Compared to girls, Hiruma thinks, plays and strategies and negotiating threats are a fucking piece of cake.)

(Hiruma hates cake.)

***

 That razor-wire grin across his face—it is two parts sadism, one part glee, three parts desperate determination—and at that point she gives up, because really, it’s just all Hiruma, and he’s probably making fun of her again.

***

That dangerous grace he has repressed into his spine—sometimes, Mamori is horrified by the lengths he’s gone to attain it.

***

Mamori isn’t helpless by any means, but she is used to coddling and being coddled. Things come easily to her, which is fine—it gives her more time for American Football and making sure that Sena is eating properly—but she occasionally wishes, just a little, for a challenge. Hiruma is, she supposes, the manifestation of that wish—all the more reason to wish prudently.

He pushes her just as hard as he pushes the rest of the team. A part of Mamori responds to that (and whenever she is truly, truly fed up with him—stupid arrogant crazy quarterback!—she remembers how casually he taught her to bench press, without belittling her at all. It’s enough to make her straighten her spine and push back), and relishes it.

***

She saw him outside of school once during their first year; it was on the subway, the only empty space was beside him (she was hardly surprised). Feeling desperately underdressed (she was wearing a cardigan and jeans, he was slimly attired as ever in black), she squared her shoulders and sat down; he didn’t actually start, but he did glance over (for Hiruma, Mamori had heard, acknowledging something that wasn’t American football or guns and making eye contact with someone he wasn’t threatening and who wasn’t talking about American football or guns, was somewhat out of character) and he raised one of his eyebrows in a look so expressionlessly disdainful that Mamori had to fight back an ashamed blush.

“You’re on the fucking disciplinary committee,” he’d said.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” She huffed angrily and Hiruma had grinned delightedly.

“I’ll talk however the fuck I want, fucking committee girl,” he had told her (maniacally) cheerfully. “But this is where I get off—“ the train slid obligingly to a stop as he stood, slinging a suspiciously bulging sack over one shoulder—“so I’ll take my fucking leave.”

She’d been so angry that she missed her transfer—luckily she wasn’t terribly late home—but that had pretty much cemented her opinion of Hiruma Youichi for the next year or so: he was coarse and very likely dangerous and possibly a delinquent—but Mamori wasn’t afraid of him in the least. She had the funny feeling that’d only amuse him, anyhow.

***

"Hiruma-kun," she says offhand one night, when only the two of them remain in the clubhouse; the pachinko machines are quiet and dark and the sky outside is so overcast that no hint of light comes in through the open door. "Hiruma, what's going to happen after we win?"

He grins over his laptop; "Fucking manager," Hiruma says, in what passes (for him) as a fond tone of voice, "we're going to keep doing it."


End file.
